


It's Just Research

by brokenlittleboy



Series: Commissions [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Barebacking, Books: Supernatural Series - Carver Edlund, Bottom Sam, Case Fic, Crack, Fanfiction Writer Sam Winchester, Fictional ABO, First Time, Humor, M/M, Metafiction, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sam Writes ABO Fanfiction, Season/Series 04, Smut, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21536938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: Sam becomes obsessed with the "wincest" shippers on the forums for fans of Carver Edlund's "Supernatural." Dean finds out.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Commissions [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/666929
Comments: 65
Kudos: 354





	It's Just Research

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rhyaenv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhyaenv/gifts).



> This was written for the amazing Victoria, whose prompts are always so delicious and fun to write <3 Thank you again and please enjoy! :D

Sam had a problem.

He knew he did, really. He knew it was fucked up. Trust him, he was aware. He considered it his own personal burden, and after years of practice, he learned how to deal with it.

Until their last stupid case came along and blew everything up in his face.

Sam could now define his life by another era: Pre and Post-Carver Edlund.

Pre-Carver Edlund, Sam was content to quietly pine his entire life away. When you wanted fucked up things, it was better to keep that shit locked up. And Sam was great at it. And it wasn’t like he wasn’t grateful, either; Sam was so grateful for the few good things in his life, and most of the time, that included Dean. Except not as much, recently, but Sam supposed that was his own fault.

Post-Carver Edlund, Sam had a new problem.

An addiction, really.

It started out innocently enough. He learned through the forums that fans of the Supernatural books “shipped” him and Dean together. They even had a neat little portmanteau for it: Wincest. 

Of course Sam had a healthy curiosity. It was a little, crazy dose of validation for what Sam buried in the closet in his head. So he browsed the forums, and found that fans spent the majority of their time on a website called the Only Archive Available (lovingly shortened to OAA). 

The OAA was a website of exclusively fanfiction (or “fic”) posts.

Sam clicked the most popular one for Wincest out of curiosity.

It was well written, he supposed, but it was… bad.

He felt guilty saying that when someone somewhere probably spent a lot of time on it, and a lot of people clearly liked it, but it just was.

The dynamic was all wrong. He felt like he was reading about himself and Dean in a funhouse mirror universe. Little moments that meant nothing were contorted into a mess of sexual tension straight out of a romance novel for older women that had dubious BDSM scenes. Sometimes Sam was even portrayed in ways that made his stomach turn.

Dean might let Sam boss him around sometimes in their regular life, but watching it become some kink… Sam hated it. He knew Dean would hate it, and would judge the shit out of Sam for even looking at it. 

It made him resent the books even more. If this was what people were getting out of them, how were they accurate representations of his life? It made him feel all weird inside.

Sam tried not to be petty, but there was a small part of him that broke out every full moon that was atypically petty, and well. He looked through the rest of the popular fics and found they all shared the same nauseating tropes. They were wrong about Sam and Dean.

Sam started to notice a pattern: fics came with tags that allowed users to filter for specific content. And the majority of fics that were popular in the Edlund “fandom” were tagged with Dean in an, er, compromising position.

Only because of his innate love of research, Sam plugged in the opposite tag, of himself being so compromised.

Fics popped up. More than a few, but fewer than in the other tag. 

Sam clicked on one at random.

It was 11,455 words.

He read the whole thing in one sitting, clicking chapter after chapter.

It was a fic where he and Dean were emotionally intimate a lot, and it just sort of fell into sexual intimacy. That wasn’t really how it worked in real life, but Sam’s little heart was willing to look past it. Dean, as the older brother, “took care” of Sam, validated him, and gave him what he wanted. They had a wildly kinky, but surprisingly healthy, relationship.

Sam was hard after the second sentence and he stayed painfully hard throughout the whole fic. The author took liberties on Dean’s anatomies, but the descriptions were so specific that they felt real. He could see the scenes playing out in his head, and he could almost feel Dean’s hands, Dean’s breaths.

Dean’s cock.

Sam’s dick was wet. He was thinking about the Thing To Never Think About. And he was thinking about it a lot and had been thinking about it for several hours.

And now some random person on the internet had written out his deepest fantasies without a second thought and shared it with other people.

It was a downhill fucking slope from there out. Sam made an account, lurking in the community, following specific users, and reading their fanfiction recommendation lists all the way through. He saved and downloaded his favorites in a secret folder on his computer. Some he didn’t like, but most he did. Some were goddamn novels with emotional development and catharsis. 

He learned the communities in and out; when they interacted, when there were contrasting factions and bickering. He tried not to get too deeply into any of that, and mostly collected a growing list of fanfiction that kept him emotionally and physically hard at all times. 

He was obsessed. 

He even had a few friends online, nothing serious, and Sam didn’t share any details about his own life, but it was nice to wake up to some emails after all of his Stanford friends had given up on him and any other friend he’d had had died.

Now, whenever he had any free time, he spent it online.

He wasn’t completely a lost cause, of course. It wasn’t like he spent every waking hour online, and he didn’t sneak off to read it. He just waited until Dean inevitably went out for the night, only to return the next morning hungover and covered in hickies, and distracted himself from his usual angsty thoughts with the OAA.

Like tonight, for example.

Dean left an hour ago to “case” the local bar, and Sam spent an hour diligently researching for the case without any wandering thoughts. He found a lead and made reliable notes. He had a game plan for tomorrow. All he could do now was wait.

Wait, and read fanfiction.

Sam furtively looked out the motel window. Nope, Impala still gone. He sat at the little kitchenette table and opened up his laptop. He typed in the forum URL and was met with three new notifications. Two of them were just about trending posts, but one of them was one of his friends, SaltMyBones93, sending him a link to a newly posted rec list.

Sam grinned at his little LED screen. He clicked the message and wrote a quick thank you to SaltMyBones93. Then he clicked the link, and clicked the first fic on the rec list.

SaltMyBones had introduced him to a new thing called “A/B/O.”

At first, Sam was justifiably wary.

It was on the weird side.

The really weird side.

It stood for Alpha/Beta/Omega, and was about characters in fanfics being werewolves. Alphas were like wolves and could “knot” omegas, and omegas went into heat. There was more to it than that, but that was the basic gist.

Sam would have laughed it off and kept scrolling, except the majority of A/B/O Wincest fics had himself as an omega and Dean as an alpha. Rather, himself as a deeply submissive sexual partner and Dean as the dominant one.

That was what made Sam click a fic on the A/B/O rec list.

In this particular fic, things were mostly normal: he and Dean grew up under John’s tutelage as hunters, searching for their mother’s killer. Sometimes, the plottier ones made Sam uncomfortable, either making assumptions he didn’t appreciate or reminding him too deeply about his problems and personal tragedies. 

This one wasn’t so bad, though.

It took place when he and Dean were teenagers. Sam was 17 and his family assumed he was an alpha just like them. It made sense considering their rugged and masculine lifestyle, as a lot of ABO fics included an implicit social structure or bias against omegas. 

Then, out of nowhere, Sam went into heat: it turned out he wasn’t an alpha, he was just a late bloomer. Sam smirked at the accuracy of that.

The only problem was that omega heats, especially the first ones, were like massive aphrodisiacs to alphas that lowered their restraint and inhibitions. And Dean, still a young omega at 21, couldn’t really help himself.

Sam needed him: heats could be violent, and other seedy alphas at the motel might come knocking. But staying locked in a small room with an omega in heat drove Dean crazy.

So they fucked. They knotted. They mated--becoming bound to each other forever.

The sex was the majority of the fic, all the way to the conclusion. The fic didn’t approach what John would think when he got home or what would happen when the heat ended.

It just approached the sexy bits.

In impressive detail.

And those sexy bits were precisely what Sam wanted, at least for tonight. Sometimes he liked the ones where Dean was emotionally open and tactile with Sam and even said “I love you.”

But sometimes he just wanted to palm his dick, like he was doing right now, back in his bed.

He kept his eyes glued to the screen, reading about how his teenage self rutted into the shitty motel bed, cock straining for any sort of sensation. He read about how Dean grabbed his hips hard enough to leave marks. He read about how Dean licked his dripping hole before shoving his oversized cock into Sam.

He didn’t read the rest of the fic because he came so hard he almost blacked out.

That’s how Dean found him: laying in bed, pants around his knees, soft dick out, shirt stained with come, laptop on his lap, face red and dazed.

One moment, Sam was in a post-orgasm haze, getting feeling back into his toes, and the next, the room was cold, the door thunking loudly as Dean kicked it open, and Dean was standing there.

Dean took one look at him and whistled, grinning like a slimy jackass. “Well, hey, Sammy, I was starting to think you weren’t human!”

Sam was slam dunked back into his body by horror and embarrassment, and he quickly sat up, heart beating out of his chest. He wriggled his pants back on while Dean chuckled and ambled over. 

“What you watchin’?” Dean asked. “Is it that Amber girl? The things she can do with her mouth. Or, her throat, I guess.”

“It’s nothing!” Sam blurted out in a second flat, slamming his laptop shut before Dean could get a look at the screen.

“Jeeze,” Dean said, whisking his fingers away before they could get crushed. “Worse than Amber? Gay shit?”

“Shut up,” Sam spat, suddenly pissed at Dean, suddenly vitriolic. “Just shut up.”

Sam hopped up off the bed, making his way to the bathroom.

“Woah, hey--” Dean started to say, but Sam didn’t stick around to hear the rest of it. He slammed the bathroom door. 

He took a boiling hot shower, leaning his forehead against the gross tiles and painfully reliving the moment over and over again. This would never leave him. On his deathbed, he would think of what happened tonight.

By the time Sam came out of the shower, Dean had passed out, or at least pretended to. The militia of beer bottles he’d brought in with him were all empty, sitting strewn on the table.

Sam cleared his own bed off and turned onto his side, facing away from Dean. He stared into the dark, unable to sleep, thoughts caught between real Dean and the Dean from the fic.

Caught on how different things could be.

***

When they continued the case the next day, Dean played it off like nothing had happened, and Sam was immensely grateful.

It was an apology of sorts, a forgiveness, and Sam wasn’t about to question that. He played right along, also acting ignorant, and by the end of the day, he felt mostly normal, no longer like there was a persistent itch at the back of his neck.

They finished the hunt--another salt and burn--and moved on. Sam perused newspapers for weird incidents. The inevitable end of life as they knew it, AKA the actual apocalypse itself, lurked on the backburner. No biggie. Life spun on.

They started another case in Grand Rapids. Missing girls. Sam hated cases like this, hated the somber feelings through town, the constant worry if it was a monster, and if so, which one, and if it wasn’t a monster, what to do next.

He found himself entrusted to a shitload of research while Dean did interviews. He knew Dean was being nice to him, aware that cases like this tore him up inside. Sam would have gone along to the interviews, but Dean was firm, steering Sam to the local library.

Sam found himself a quiet little study table and got to work.

He had printed about thirty pages of news articles going back to the 1960s when he got another email. 

This one was from his friend SamGirlForLife. 

It was good timing. He’d been driving himself crazy trying to chase down some lead that seemingly meant nowhere. He was convinced it meant something, and had spent half an hour searching for increasingly inscrutable keywords on local news websites.

He clicked the email. It was a message from SamGirl. 

She wrote:

_Hey, ItsJustResearch :) You know Kaylee, right? She’s doing prompts and I know you two share a lot of the same kinks. You should send her an idea so she can write it! You’re always so thoughtful :)_

Doing prompts. It took Sam a moment to realize what SamGirl meant, but once he did, his heart fluttered a little bit. 

He checked the clock. He could take a five minute break and get back into things with a fresh eye and everything would be fine.

Kaylee’s name was hyperlinked, and Sam clicked the link. It led to the post Kaylee made asking for prompts, and sure enough, Sam’s url was tagged in the post. Sam right clicked her icon and opened up a new message box.

Taking in a little shaky breath, casually looking over his shoulder as he fake sneezed, Sam began to type.

_Sam/Dean, omega Sam, Dean comes inside Sam_

Sam’s entire face was hot. His whole body was hot. He was too strung out and nervous to be hard, but in any other circumstances, he would be. This website had turned him into teenage Dean--dick always up, always fidgety.

That thought didn’t help his situation.

Sam read his message again, rolled his shoulders, and clicked send.

The page went blank as it processed his request, then gave him a confirmation: Kaylee had received his message.

Sam let out a breath.

It was out in the world now. He couldn’t dwell on it. He needed to give Kaylee time.

He needed to focus on the hunt.

Sam dove back into his research, and found his brief conversation had subtly shifted his perception of a story from an article. He dug into it, and found an inaccuracy: something small that could easily be an error, but in a hunt like this, could also be a lead.

By the time he’d followed it through as much as he could and written up half a journal in notes, it was the evening. A hand touched his shoulder and he jolted, whipping his head up to find Dean there, hair soaked from rain.

Dean cocked a grin down at him. “Hey there, Sparky. Productive day?”

Sam got up, knees cracking. “Actually, yeah,” he said. “Here.” He handed Dean a massive pile of papers, making Dean grunt with the weight. They rushed them out to the car, mindful of getting them wet. The papers sat in the backseat like Sam and Dean’s child.

Sam’s subconscious was definitely being affected by his addiction.

Dean drove in silence for a few minutes. The drive to the motel wasn’t all that long so Sam didn’t think much of it until Dean cleared his throat.

“So, uh, Sammy,” Dean said, halting every few syllables. He cleared his throat. “About last night--”

Sam went pink. “Hey,” he interjected before Dean could keep going. “It’s whatever.”

“No, just…” Dean trailed off, hands flexing on the steering wheel. Sam watched the column of Dean’s throat as he swallowed. “You know, if you are… gay… you can tell me, you know, I’m not gonna, uh, I’m not--”

“Dean,” Sam squeaked. “It’s okay. Really.”

Dean glanced over at Sam. “It is?”

Sam softened. “Yeah. It’s fine. I mean. Thank you.”

Dean nodded, jaw looking less tense. The motel appeared over the rise, and Dean parked in front of the room. He didn’t reach for the key or get out of the car. Sam waited.

“So are you?” Dean asked, not looking directly at him. “Gay?”

This was absolutely not the conversation Sam expected to be having with Dean today--or, hell, ever--but one thing he’d learned from fics was that it was better to talk things out awkwardly than bottle it up and die bloody.

“I don’t know,” Sam answered honestly. “Maybe a little.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “‘Maybe a little?’” he repeated.

Sam nodded, shrugging, full sturgeon face. “Yeah.”

Dean took a few beats to process that. Then he nodded, like a rusty robot doing a calculation. “Okay.”

Sam nodded back. “Okay.”

Dean coughed. “Jesus christ,” he said. “I’m going the fuck inside, where it’s dry and Dr. Sexy is on.”

Sam snorted. He followed Dean inside, a light smile stuck to his face.

Dean obviously felt guilty, because he was nice to Sam all day. It had been months since Sam had known Dean like this and he was going to soak it up. They watched dumb soap operas together, ordered in, and lazed about while the sun went down. Sam updated Dean on the case, and they made a plan to visit the coroner’s office first thing tomorrow. 

Sometimes, cases left frustrating lull times like this, where their best clues could only be followed 9-5. Other times, clues were best found deep in the night with lockpicks and dark clothing. Sometimes things happened in a day. Sometimes it took weeks.

Usually, Sam was an anxious mess about it, but tonight, Dean was a welcome distraction, and things were simple for a little while. There was no new news, so no new bad news. Sam thought on his hunch, growing in conviction, memorizing little details and planning how to approach questions and interviewees tomorrow.

The next Doctor Sexy was a re-run he’d already seen just by virtue of living in a tiny motel with Dean for years. Sam pulled out his BlackBerry and checked his email on his phone. 

He had a new email. It was a notification telling him Kaylee had replied to his message.

Sam went hot. His heart became a bouncy ball racketing around inside his chest.

Trying to act as casually as possible, Sam slipped his phone back into his pocket and stretched, forcing a nice, long yawn. Dean side-eyed him.

Sam got up, swiping a pair of sweatpants from the top of his duffel bag. “Gonna shower,” he said, trying to sound loose.

Dean just nodded, eyes still glued to the screen while Doctor Sexy gave chest compressions to a half naked woman. Sam’s shoulders sagged in relief and he slipped into the bathroom.

Sam turned on the shower and sat on the toilet seat. He pulled out his phone and clicked the email. He clicked the link within and Kaylee’s blog popped up, with Sam’s question right at the top.

She’d responded with a brief fic, about 2k. 

Sam read the whole thing, barely blinking, thighs flexing as his dick became harder than ever.

It was “established relationship,” as in, he and Dean had been mates for a while now. Sam’s heat came as expected, and fic-Sam crawled into fic-Dean’s bed and rutted against him. Dean woke up and called Sam sweet names and touched him nicely before putting him on his stomach and fucking him hard and deep, then coming, then fucking Sam through the come.

SamGirl had once linked him to a gay porn just like that. As porn by itself, it did absolutely nothing for Sam, like most porn. But once he squinted and turned the shaved ass of the bottom into his ass and the sticky come slapping loudly against the bottom’s ass into Dean’s come, oh my god. Just oh my god.

Sam had that image in his head as he turned off his phone, stripped, hopped into the shower, and masturbated his soul out, coming with a groan muffled by his forearm against the shower tiles. 

Outside the motel bathroom, Dean stared at the bathroom door with narrowed eyes, his keen Sammy senses loudly and clearly telling him something was off.

***

Sam’s hunch paid off. They tracked down a cursed object in a museum, torched it, and some of the girls were returned to their families. Some weren’t.

It was a win but it was a pyrrhic one. They left a rainy and quiet town in a quiet car. Sam and Dean sat in thoughtful silence.

The whole drive went like that. Sam read his emails, seeing notification after notification from his online friends. He knew the majority of what was posted was filthy and sexual, so he resisted the urge to click through and read. In a car with Dean while they drove 5 hours to another town was not the ideal place to get a stiffie.

Before he knew it, they were in another motel, nearly identical to the last one, in another small town, this one slightly warmer than the last, a little more Southern. Fall was trying to sink its roots here but not fully succeeding yet.

Dean threw his duffel on the bed closest to the door then went to put his boots on. Sam watched him. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Dean said, giving Sam a quick smile, “to think about hot girls, not dead ones.”

Sam glared at Dean. “Real tactful.”

Dean shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t wait up on me.”

Sam bit his lip. “You know I don’t.”

Dean chuckled at that. “I’m on a winning streak,” he joked, waggling his eyebrows. “Gotta keep it going.”

Sam knew he couldn’t be too sullen or Dean would pick up on it and proceed to whittle down Sam’s defenses until Sam was forced into a super awkward confession. 

He settled on the bitchy brother facade and rolled his eyes. “Gross, Dean.”

Dean’s smile didn’t waver, and he hummed to himself on the way out. He didn’t say goodbye. The door shut, the Impala’s engine rumbled on, and Sam listened to the car drive away.

Once the motel room was silent, Sam let out the breath he was holding, feeling unnecessarily shitty. Dean had been having one night stands almost every week since he was 14 or 15, so this was nothing new. Sam was used to it.

And yet, lately it had been hurting more than it used to.

Lately, Sam’s thoughts were crowded with images of Dean buried in pussy, Dean’s hands on tits, Dean’s mouth on lipstick pink lips. Dean was one of the most aggressively heterosexual people Sam had ever met, and as a hunter, that was saying something.

All of this fanfiction, all of this fantasy, this entire community of devoted sinners, it was all centered around something fake. Something that would never actually happen.

Not to mention that fic Dean trusted Sam, worshipped him, and real life Dean was pretty fuckin’ far away from that, especially after Lilith and everything.

It didn’t used to bother Sam.

Sam eyed his laptop with a frown.

Maybe this really was an addiction, to a degree that was harming his everyday life. Maybe he should delete his account and not look back. Not talk to his friends ever again. Not read any fic. And certainly not think about the way Dean’s cock might feel in his mouth.

His angsty, mopey thoughts had resulted in a semi and a cagey feeling. Sam grabbed his laptop, bringing it back to bed. He went through all of his notifications, saving the fic recs, responding to the messages, and continuing to lurk through the various discussion threads.

Tonight, he wanted something specific. He didn’t quite know what it was, though, so browsing through the fic rec lists was more frustrating than helpful. There was some itch he didn’t know how to scratch.

He had been introduced to “meta,” which were analysis essays, rather than stories, about the book series. Meta covered any issue from any perspective. Some of it was absolutely absurd, calling Sam an abuser or theorizing that the whole show actually took place in the “Teletubbies Television Universe” (or TTU). Some of it hit way too close to home; Sam avoided that kind of meta like the plague. 

But some of it was tied to “wincest” and “slash.” Some meta analyzed things Sam and Dean had said to each other and ways they’d interacted.

Sam liked that meta.

He liked when people wrote meta about how there was no doubt that Dean loved Sam. Having been frequently skeptical of that fact himself, it was a nice read. Therapeutic. Maybe it disillusioned him a little, maybe it didn’t.

Tonight, Kaylee had posted a meta arguing that Sam was a writer.

It was very in-depth, and as Kaylee was a good writer herself, it was well-organized and gripping. Sam found himself agreeing with some of her points. He commented on it, praising her for her analytical skills and wishing her luck in her upcoming semester.

It left Sam thinking.

Was he a writer?

None of the fics he’d looked at tonight satisfied him. Was he capable of making the content he wanted himself?

He was opening a blank document before he knew it.

Staring at the little blinking icon waiting for him to start typing was intimidating. The moment the document was open, his mind was as blank as the page.

What did he want? And how could he get it? How could it start? Where would it go?

Sam was winding himself up. He couldn’t obsess over it or he’d never make any progress.

He started typing.

_“Sam had always loved Dean, his whole life, and he’d never thought Dean loved him back. Until now.”_

Once he got started, he couldn’t stop, struck by a lightning bolt of inspiration, and he wrote until his wrists ached and he had to break to massage them, pee, and drink some water. He got right back to work, writing through the night.

He wrote about wincest how he wanted it to happen, and with his experiences of Dean. He wrote a Dean who struggled to articulate himself but had a lot of deep emotions under his veneer of masculinity. He wrote about Dean expertly picking up on Sam’s feelings and making the first move. He wrote about adult werewolves who didn’t need heats anymore, but mated together nonetheless. Their relationship happened late, but it didn’t make it any less powerful.

He wrote about a Dean that cherished Sam and a Sam that lived up to Dean’s love. A universe where Dean had never gone to hell and Sam hadn’t danced away with Ruby.

When he was done, he was weepy eyed and hard, embarrassed and turned on. Throughout the writing process he’d experienced just about every human emotion on the spectrum a couple times.

Without thinking, Sam published the fic, the first post on his page. He turned off the laptop and cast it aside, already regretting his decision.

Sam jerked off, came twice, put down a few shots of whiskey, and passed the fuck out.

***

He was woken up by cold hands hitting his face.

Sam groaned, blindly batting away the onslaught with a pouty frown. 

“Sammy, wake up,” Dean sing-songed, and as Sam woke up, he registered the feminine perfume wafting off Dean. And the stink of sex.

Sam’s eyes opened to tiny slits; the sunlit morning world was too much for him to handle right now. He glared up at Dean. His eyes flitted down to Dean’s neck. “There’s lipstick on your jugular.”

Dean reached up without looking and rubbed at his neck with his sleeve; only succeeding in smearing it and making it look like he was bleeding.

“Veronica, not vampire,” Dean said. “Now get the hell up, dude. It’s 11 A.M. What kind of night did you have?”

Sam was not in the mood to answer Dean’s questions. He got up, grunting with every movement, hobbling squinty-eyed into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face.

Dean took him to a shitty little local diner to get some grease in his stomach and some clarity in his eyes. Dean scanned local newspapers for hunts while they waited for their food to come.

Sam checked his email and almost choked on his milkshake when he saw it.

He had four hundred notifications.

He skimmed them uncomprehendingly until his memories of last night slammed into him like a freight train.

The fic. The fucking fic he wrote. The fic he wrote and published on a whim.

Oh, god.

Out of morbid curiosity, or maybe as a form of punishment, Sam read through every notification. The majority of them were comments on the post, some congratulating him for finally losing his “post” virginity, others complimenting the fic.

There was nothing negative.

Even Kaylee sent him a message full of praise, citing specific sentences and moments she loved the most. The post had gotten into the “hot” category and had been shared in various fandom circles several times.

In other words, it was a hit. People loved it.

Sam had no idea how to react. Hundreds of internet strangers were excited over the way “his” Dean watched out for Sam; people he’d never met and most likely never would were telling him they jerked off to the passion-filled sex scenes he wrote.

Their food came and Sam didn’t touch his, still trying to catch up on all of his notifications and conversations with friends. It wasn’t long before Dean put down his newspapers to check on Sam. Dean kicked Sam in the ankle. Sam jerked his head up, blinking out of his BlackBerry-induced reverie. “Hmm?”

Dean’s eyes flicked down to Sam’s phone, then back up to meet Sam’s eyes. Dean quirked an eyebrow. “Something interesting?”

Sam went red. He dropped his phone, fumbling it back into his pocket. He shook his head with enough vigor to mess up his hair and knew he was being wildly suspicious. “Uh, no,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

Dean’s eyes went huge and Sam’s heartbeat picked up at the insane possibility that Dean was a mind reader or just a stupid great guesser and had figured out Sam’s secret. “Sammy,” Dean said, voice packed with surprise and a certain brand of awe, “did you figure out how to get porn on that thing?”

“What? No!” Sam barked out, with just enough indignation to have Dean leaning back in his seat with a proud smirk. It was technically the truth, but also miles away from the truth, so Sam was content to let Dean believe he’d figured it all out.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” Dean said, shaking his head. “I never would have guessed. It’s always the quiet ones.”

Sam was not going to stoop to Dean’s level and give that a response. He started opening a dressing packet for his salad instead. 

Dean kicked him in the ankle again. “Eat some fries, too. Can’t have a Sasquatch in the car all day with a hangover.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but reached across the table to snag a handful of Dean’s fries.

***

By the end of the day, they’d found another hunt. It seemed to be a run-of-the-mill salt and burn. Oklahoma. One of Sam’s least favorite states. No offense, Oklahomans; a few bad childhood experiences were all it took to turn a state into a sour aftertaste.

Sam was grateful for the slew of regular hunts; the focus wasn’t on him or any mistakes he’d made. There were no angels staring him down with those damningly knowing eyes of theirs. Sam could almost pretend the world wasn’t actively ending all around him.

The motel they checked into was something so nondescript and generic that Sam knew he would immediately forget it existed the moment they checked out of it.

Dean once again took the bed closest to the door. Sam dropped his duffels on his bed, letting out a long exhale as he rubbed feeling back into his aching shoulders. Baby was home, but on days where they were on the road for more than 16 hours, she also felt a bit like a sardine can.

Sam was trying his best not to show it in front of Dean, but he was antsy as hell.

He knew Dean was getting suspicious, so he hadn’t gone on his phone once while they were in the car, not even to check the time. He hadn’t logged into his fan account in over a day.

At this point, he was so plugged into the online culture and his friends’ lives that being away for even a short amount of time felt like he was missing out on something huge. For all he knew, Emily had gotten the job she’d applied for or some huge scandal had broken out about Carver Edlund. He spent more time thinking about his friends online than about the breaking sixty-six seals all around the world. Hell, he’d spent more time researching schools for a friend considering graduate schools than he’d spent researching signs from Revelations or Lilith’s whereabouts.

Sam knew what addiction was like; he knew what he fell prone to. This was no different. But unlike other things in his life, it was a little sunbeam of positivity in his mostly morbid days that he couldn’t bear to let go of.

Dean turned on the T.V., zoning out and eating BBQ-flavored chips. Sam’s body went lose. He dropped down onto his own bed, mirroring Dean, and feigned a yawn.

He took out his phone.

He lost himself in short fics, personal posts, new meta, and some rather lurid fanart. There were some talented motherfuckers out there, and Sam was grateful they were using their skills to make his darkest fantasies a reality.

Sam read a little bit too much of an ABO fic where Dean impregnates Sam during the hunt for Azazel and John finds out. It was filthy, and more fucked up than Sam was comfortable with, especially concerning his dad and some less-than-paternal feelings, but hey, that was ABO. The sex was great and Sam found himself chubbing up.

As casually as he could, Sam ambled into the bathroom. He turned the sink on and read the rest of the fic. He jerked off into the toilet and bit his forearm to muffle a quiet whine. He did his business and washed up.

When he left the bathroom, a post-orgasm clarity hit him with about a thousand tons of shame and disgust. Dean was looking at him in a way that said he knew exactly what Sam had been up to.

Eartips burning, Sam walked past Dean, feeling Dean’s eyes tracking the back of his head. He grabbed his backpack and his laptop and headed for the door. 

Gathering up all his strength, he turned to face Dean. Dean’s face was unreadable.

“I’m, uh, gonna go to the library,” Sam said, clearing his throat. “To do some research.”

Dean stared at him for a few beats. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Sam echoed, grimace-smiling at Dean. “See you.”

Dean turned back to the T.V., pouring the last few crumbs from the chip bag into his mouth. Sam left the motel, cursing himself and shaking his head the moment the door clicked shut behind him.

The walk to the town library was just long enough for Sam to relive his recent cringiest moments a few times. By the time he got to the squat, unloved structure, he felt like people were giving him strange looks. He slunk to a dark and dusty corner of the library and began scrolling through microfiches of old newspapers that might have information pertaining to their current hunt.

He was surprisingly productive. He used his streak of good luck and good leads to lose himself in the work, leaving behind all his shitty thoughts and self hatred. 

The house that was haunted used to be the caretaker’s house for a local Catholic cemetery. The house had a lot of historical documents that Sam was able to find with ease, and a lot of newspaper articles about the affair scandal the last caretaker to live in it had been a part of.

It wasn’t hard to piece together the story; a scorned lover unable to move on, her spirit sleeping in the house until it was opened up to the public as a local historical site. Ever since the grand opening, cheating men were dying right and left, and skeletons better left in closets were being aired in households all across the town.

Some part of her was tied to the house; being in a cemetery, Sam wouldn’t be surprised if her grave were right by the house, or if an object of her’s had been added to the new museum inside the house. He was almost 100% certain she was the one they were looking for, and there was a lot of information about her in newspapers, as she was the first woman to run for city council. She lost. 

All he and Dean would have to do was break into the house and cemetery and look for anything on Annice Parker. One burning skeleton and/or necklace later, and the deaths in this town would stop.

Sam made copies of every article that held even a single sentence of information, preparing a folder for Dean so he could catch himself up on everything Sam had learned.

When Sam was done with all of that, it wasn’t even dinner time.

He logged into his fandom account. 

It was weird being “popular” for writing fics about his older brother aggressively, yet lovingly barebacking his asshole. It was weird having all of this newfound knowledge of gay sex terms and kinks and niche culture terminology, like “squicks.” 

Yet the nerdy part of Sam was living for it. He soaked everything up, savoring every new friend, every new comment, every new post. He was on the pulse of things, and he was starting to feel an obligation to share the best and newest posts so his friends could see them and anyone else who was interested. He felt like a scholar, like a guidepost for other people.

He had a new message in his inbox. He clicked it.

It was a prompt. For him.

A user he hadn’t heard of (whose blog, after a quick skimming, seemed to consist of exclusively posts about how good Sam was, which wasn’t something he could really deal with right now) was asking him to write a fic where Dean confesses his love for Sam after Sam thought Dean didn’t love him at all.

Sam’s throat tightened as he read the request over and over again. His fingers were frozen over the keyboard. His eyes burned. 

He didn’t know if he could write this in good faith. If it was arrogant, or if it would break him.

He started typing an apology to the user, but in the middle of his sentence explaining why he couldn’t do it, something in him twisted, and he deleted what he wrote.

He took a long, shuddering breath, and began to type a story.

He was deep in, hyper-focused on his writing. He was in the meat of things, in the painful catharsis of necessary conversations, when a hand grabbing at his laptop jarred him out of his zen state and into one of supreme anxiety.

Sam made a garbled noise of alarm, reaching out for his laptop. He looked up at his assailant and found Dean holding out his laptop with an accusatory glare on his face.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean barked. “This isn’t research.”

Sam grabbed the laptop with enough speed and panic-induced strength that it clonked onto the wood table loudly enough to startle nearby patrons. He sent an apologetic look to a frail-looking women one book stack over before glaring back at Dean.

“It isn’t,” he said, proud of how his voice didn’t shake, navigating away from the fic document, “it’s a project for some Stanford friends. I was taking a break from research.”

Dean made a nasty sound. “Since when do we get to take fucking breaks, Sammy? You know better than that. And Stanford friends? Try a better excuse next time, or better yet, stop sneaking around and lying out your ass.”

Dean stormed away. Well, mostly away. He stopped a few paces away and turned. “Keep researching, or I’ll take that thing away from you,” he said. “There’ll be takeout at home.”

With that, Dean stormed all the way away, somehow managing to wait for a sliding door angrily, leaving Sam sitting there, completely deflated.

***

Sam did do more research, and made them a game plan for tonight, too. He knew the fight wasn’t over. Dean was still pissed. Sam was still defensive and sensitive. And he hadn’t gotten to finish the fic he was writing.

When he got to the motel that night, the takeout waiting for him had long gone cold and mushy. He ate it anyway, one eye glued to the door.

Dean came home around eleven. His jacket was on wrong and he had a gait like he was trying to walk across a ship’s prow during a storm.

Sam looked up at him from his sesame chicken. “That was fast,” he sniped.

Dean’s red eyes focused on him one at a time. “Yeah, whatever,” he grumbled, sliding out of his jacket and shoes and pushing further into the room.

“Dean, we have work to do,” Sam said. “We still have a hunt--”

“Oh, can it,” Dean interjected. “You get a break. I get a break. Sue me.”

Sam felt the indignation surge up in him, making him twitchy. “I wasn’t drunk,” he said, sharp emphasis on “drunk,” “and we need to go out and find Annice’s grave. Tonight. So no more people die.”

“With your track record, you don’t get to be on my ass right now,” Dean said. 

Sam opened his mouth to say something then snapped it shut again. He took a moment, breathing in and out. In and out.

“We have to find her bones, or what’s tying her here,” Sam said evenly. “Then we can burn her and solve the case.”

Dean groaned. “Now you’re an angel of virtue, geek boy? Well, you’re not driving.”

Sam stood up, walking over to the Impala’s keys on the dressers twice as fast as Dean could manage. “Yes, I am.”

Somehow, even while drunk, Dean managed to roll his eyes right out of his head.

***

Sam drove the car while steaming. He was a thundercloud of emotions, a volatile mix of them. There were too many to focus on at one time, his thoughts skipping like a stone across a lake from one fragmented thought to the next. He felt like a claustrophobic person in a room slowly shrinking.

Dean was a wake up call. A painful one. Sam had been writing a fic that left him so vulnerable he’d been flayed raw, a fic where Dean would do anything for him and understood him. And he had been interrupted by the real Dean saying exactly the right thing to hurt him. To cut deep.

Sam didn’t want to face his online friends, the world he’d built there. It was all a charade based on lies and delusion. And he didn’t want to face Dean or his disappointment, either, didn’t want to face the shards of their fractured relationship or the reality of how hopeless the world was right now.

He was on the verge of a breakdown and he knew it. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, and he did his best not to even glance at Dean in his periphery.

For right now, this wasn’t about either of them. This was about paying something back, doing a duty, and saving people’s lives. It was the least he could do.

***

The house was Victorian. While it looked massive on the outside, it was filled with so many hallways, servant passages, stairways, and little rooms that it felt cramped and choked on the inside, especially with glass museum pedestals taking up the majority of the floor space.

He and Dean had to shuffle around, pressed up against each other in the smaller rooms, and every time Dean’s shoulder brushed his, Sam had to fight down feelings of arousal, guilt, anger, and disgust.

Dean seemed to be dealing to something similar, at least on the negative emotion spectrum, for every time they had more room, Dean was backing away, sliding away, zipping to the other side of the room to “inspect” something. It was lemon juice in Sam’s wounds, but at this point in his life, he was used to the feeling. At least Dean seemed to have his head on a little straighter now.

He was reading a plaque on Peter Parker (no relation to the spider-themed superhero), Annice’s husband and serial cheater, when he realized he was alone in the room. He looked up, searching for Dean’s distant flashlight beam. There was nothing, only darkness and vague shapes that conjured all sorts of monsters in Sam’s brain.

Sam raised his flashlight, angling it down the hall. “Dean?”

No response.

Sam slid quietly through the room, sweeping the light of his flashlight back and forth. “Dean?”

He froze, listening for a sound. Any sound.

SLAM. Sam jolted, his heart beating painfully in his chest as the door next to him swung open and Dean sauntered out, blinding Sam with his flashlight. Sam backed up against the wall, glad he didn’t piss himself. When he got his bearings, he saw two fearful tweenagers cowering behind Dean.

Dean gestured toward them with his flashlight, and they squinted in the bright light. “Found these two lovebugs getting all Sixteen Candles in the sun room,” he said. “You get them out of here. I’ll look for Annie’s shit.”

“Annice,” Sam corrected. He blinked hard. “No, wait. We’re not splitting up.”

“It’s too dangerous for them,” Dean said, his voice getting all sharp in that disapproving way of his. “Get them out of here.”

“Then come with me,” Sam persisted. “Annice is dangerous—”

“Sam,” Dean interjected. “Wasting moonlight. Go.”

Sam opened his mouth to snap something back, but one of the girls slipped over to stand by him. “We just want to go home,” she said in a small voice.

God damn it.

Sam shot Dean a quick glare, then forced a wide smile at the girls. “This way.”

Dean turned away from him, moving quickly down the hallway, deeper into the house. Sam moved more slowly, staring after Dean until he turned a corner and disappeared.

The other girl, the one with the emo look, snorted up at Sam. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

That started a bark of a laugh out of Sam. “God, no. I wish,” he said. “Let’s get you guys out of here.”

They kept walking. The girls looked at all the portraits and marble busts of the Parkers. “So you guys think ghosts are real?” the more sporty-looking girl asked in a skeptical tone.

Sam didn’t know what Dean had said to her. “I know it sounds crazy,” he said, “but we just want to keep people safe.”

“Sounds like a fun job,” Emo said.

Sam was about to craft some snarky reply when the temperature in the room dropped about fifteen degrees. His breath puffed out in front of him and the little hairs on his arms stood up. He could tell the girls were experiencing similar phenomena by the swears and sharp breaths.

“Stay close,” Sam said. The girls crowded behind him and the three of them backed up toward the front hall. They were only a few paces away from freedom when Annice flickered into existence in front of them. Her ghostly arm shuddered and rose in bouts until her finger was pointing condemningly at Sam.

“You,” she growled past a rotting jaw and chipped teeth.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Sam said, holding one hand up while reaching for his salt gun with the other.

Annice snarled at him. “Cheater. Pig.”

Sam blinked. He pulled out his gun. Before he could do anything with it, Annice’s pointing finger turned into a fist and she yanked her arm. Sam was thrown backward with the gesture, and he fell into the girls, landing on one of them and making them cry out. 

Sam got onto his knees. He heard the girls move behind him and hoped they were okay. He kept his eyes glued to Annice. His gun lay on the floor halfway between him and Annice.

He leapt for it, but Annice was fast. The moment he had a hand on his gun, she threw him aside. He went flying, his gun once again leaving his grip and sliding across the room. His head knocked into the bookcase behind him. He swore, his head throbbing painfully. Annice turned her hateful gaze onto the girls. 

Annice raised her fist again, and the emo girl’s hands flew up to her throat. She sputtered, face going red. She tried and failed to pull in breaths. The other girl tried to help, hands fluttering uselessly. She turned to glare at Annice through tears. “Stop that! Stop that!”

Sam looked at his gun through double vision. It was too far. Annice would only go for him again if he tried to make a grab for it. 

Sam watched one girl choke and the other cry. He had to do something.

Just as he got up, stumbling, Dean burst into the room, gun in hand. He aimed it at Annice and fired before she could try anything. She disappeared in a puff of salt and smoke. The emo girl took in a ragged gasp of air. 

Dean went to the girls, crouching next to them. Sam stood by, unsure of what to say.

Dean looked up at him, judgement sharp in his eyes and ticking jaw. “Dress,” Dean barked. “Back room.”

Sam didn’t respond. He ran.

He didn’t see Annice at all while he ran, and it wasn’t comforting. Dean could only defend the girls for so long before Annice knocked him around good or he ran out of salt shells. Sam found the study in the back of the house and immediately spotted the long, white wedding dress pinned to the opposite wall.

He clambered onto the big mahogany desk and tore the dress down. He threw it into the fireplace, poured in some gasoline and salt, struck a match and tossed it in. The moment he saw flames he was off running again. He made it to the front hall just in time to watch the last bright pieces of Annice’s spirit disappear.

Everything after that was a blur, probably due to Sam’s head injury. There were phone calls, blinking lights, hopping fences, driving away down back roads and curving suburban streets. Before long, they were back in the motel room.

Dean whirled around to face Sam. “What the hell were you doing back there?”

Sam’s head was starting to pang more than throb now. He tried to focus on Dean but it only made the feelings more pronounced. “I-”

“You almost got those girls killed!” Dean shouted. 

Sam fell back on his bed, energy all but gone. The anger in Dean’s eyes morphed to an instinctive, reluctant kind of worry. “You hit your head?”

Sam nodded, but the action turned his skull into a bowling ball. He listed forward and Dean was there to catch him. Dean’s hand came up to feel the back of his head; Dean hissed in sympathetic pain. 

Sam tuned out all of the next prerequisite steps; he’d had enough head injuries to know the tests for concussions by heart.

“Think you’re good,” Dean said, stepping back. “I’m gonna go get you some ice.”

Sam barely processed Dean leaving, and a moment later, Dean was back. Dean scooted up into his space, the tips of their noses millimeters apart. It was more familiar than the blue of the sky. Dean pressed the ice pack into the back of Sam’s head. 

Something about Dean being right there and the sharp coldness of the ice on his skin gave Sam a new kind of clarity. He could remember when things were better, when Dean was his brother and there was no mistrust or grudges between them. 

It made him angry.

Dean tried to get Sam to hold onto the ice pack, but Sam didn’t take it. He kept Dean pinned there. He looked Dean in the eyes, more open than he’d been in months. “Fuck you.”

Dean’s brow just barely furrowed. He opened his mouth and Sam plowed on. “Fuck you,” he repeated, with more confidence. “I did all the work on this case. I worked my ass off. And I did the best I could for those girls. Sometimes mistakes fucking happen. It’s not like I go around wanting innocent people to die, no matter what you might think of me now.”

Dean pulled back, forcing Sam to catch the ice pack. He held it to his head while Dean backed up until his shins hit the other bed. “Sue me for being skeptical,” Dean said. “I don’t know what’s going on with you anymore, okay? If you’re sneaking around or lying to my face. I know something’s up, Sam, ‘cause I know you! You’re glued to your damn phone and you jump out of your skin if I come near! Sorry for finding something wrong with that.”

“That is not fair,” Sam growled. He stood, one hand still pressing the ice pack to the back of his head. “Yes I’m on my phone a lot. But I didn’t lie to you. It is a project for my friends—”

“A project that you’re obsessed with!” Dean broke in. “You never used to ‘take breaks’ on hunts, you never used to put other shit first, especially when lives are on the line—”

“FUCK you!” Sam shouted, his voice going hoarse on the second syllable. Dean’s eyes went wide and his jaw clicked shut. Angry energy vibrated throughout Sam’s body, and he stormed into Dean’s space, forcing Dean to back up and fall on his ass onto his bed. “I’m not the one fucking any open fucking legs the moment the clock hits five. I’m not the one schmoozing around in seedy bars and spending more time with random women than with family! I hardly see you anymore! And what fucking help are you to the case? What do you do? No breaks my fucking ass.”

Sam breathed heavily. He took a step back, rolling his shoulders.

The look on Dean’s face flickered. “Sam—”

“Shut up,” Sam panted. “Just shut up. I get how you feel about me, okay? I get it. Just shut up for once.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He got up and went to the door. He put on his shoes and jacket. He left. The Impala rumbled away.

Sam could only watch, the ache in his heart growing stronger.

***

When Dean came back, it was past midnight. Sam was still up, nursing his head wound. Dean looked him in the eye. “Found another pair of legs,” he snarked. 

Sam stopped himself from saying something nasty in response. Like a robot, he pulled himself over to the bathroom door. He paused, but didn’t turn to face Dean. He couldn’t right now. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he said quietly. 

He slipped inside and took care of the small cuts Dean hadn’t noticed. He turned the shower hot enough to turn his skin red. He sat until the burning spray, going completely numb.

By the time he left the bathroom, Dean was in bed and the lights were off. He could tell Dean wasn’t asleep, but he was content to go along with the charade.

Sam fell into his bed with a heavy grunt. His body felt like lead and his head pulsed with every breath. 

Even with how much his body begged him for sleep, Sam sighed and pulled out his phone. He went through his notifications, smiling despite himself at encouraging messages from his friends and sincere praise on his fic. He messaged the user who had prompted him, promising he was working on it.

He grabbed his laptop and opened his latest work in progress. The fic where Dean confesses his feelings even though Sam is so sure Dean doesn’t feel the same.

Sam bit his lip, tears welling at the corners of his eyes.

He didn’t want to write the fic anymore. It wasn’t therapy. It wasn’t a fantasy. It was just nothing.

But he would finish it because he made a promise.

And then he would never log into his account again.

***

When Dean woke the next morning, it was with a hangover.

He forced himself to sit up, mouth dry, head heavy, body aching. He could tell by the angle of the light coming in through the motel blinds that it was around noon or later.

The first thing he did was get some water into his body. He felt a little more alive after that, just barely.

The more he moved around, the more his memories from last night floated to the surface.

Sam. The hunt. Their argument. The bar. The nameless girl in the back seat. Then back home.

He didn’t want to think about big things yet. His head hurt and despite lurking feelings that things were different from what he’d thought, he still harbored resentment and suspicious feelings about Sam. 

Speaking of. Dean finished his glass of water and looked to the other bed. Sam was still asleep, curled on his side with his feet pulled up so they wouldn’t hang off the bed. He looked small like that. Dean walked closer. He checked the bump on the back of Sam’s head. The swelling had gone down. That was good. 

At that distance, he glimpsed Sam’s arm, curled up near his face (and his drooling mouth), his laptop still open on the pillow beside him. He must have fallen asleep using it.

Dean’s curiosity got the best of him. He could finally find out what Sam was hiding. He wanted to know what could make someone who already had secrets even shadier than usual. He wanted to know what Sam didn’t trust him with.

He picked up the laptop, as gingerly as Indie replacing a precious artifact in a boobytrapped tomb. Sam’s brow furrowed and he wet his lips but he didn’t stir. He looked like he always did when he was asleep, like some innocent kid. 

Dean turned away. He padded over to the kitchenette table and sat down in the chair with a deep sigh. He put Sam’s computer on the worn fake wood surface and turned it on.

It still had a charge from last night and was still logged in. The screen blinked on, showing a document with several pages of writing in it.

Dean squinted past his hangover headache, leaning forward to read the words. He was on page 11 of 11. Sam had fallen asleep halfway through writing a sentence.

_“You hate me,” Sam said to Dean, looking u_

Dean frowned. What was this?

He scrolled up to the first page. 

There was a message at the top, clearly copied and pasted based on the difference in font and background color. 

_Hi ItsJustResearch!! I LOVED your last fic. I don’t know if ur taking prompts, but I was wondering if u could write a fic where Dean tells Sam he loves him and Sam doesn’t believe him? I like it angsty. Thanks :))_

Dean’s frown deepened. He didn’t know all the words in the message, but he definitely got the gist of it. 

There was an internet browser tab open. Dean clicked it. The forums he’d found when they’d learned about Carver Edlund’s books came up, with Sam logged into an account titled ItsJustResearch with loads of points. 

Dean was beginning to understand.

He moved back to the document and started reading it.

Sam had written a story where the character Sam cared about Dean a lot and was despondent and depressed because he didn’t feel like Dean loved him back. Character Dean finds out Sam feels this way and corrects him with an emotional and touching speech.

It was verging on romantic, or so Dean thought, but the core of it was that Sam believed he was unloved and a bad person. And Dean didn’t realize Sam thought this and was quick to tell him how much he was valued.

Dean shut the laptop.

He sat there for a long time, just staring into space and stewing on things.

He was wide awake now. He recalled Sam’s anger from last night with clarity.

_I get how you feel about me, okay? I get it._

A horrible feeling was settling in the pit of his stomach.

A user might have asked for this story, but it was obvious that Sam believed the premise, just like the Sam in the story: that Dean didn’t love him. That Dean didn’t trust him.

They’d had problems, sure. Dean was hurt about how different Sam was now, all the things he had to learn about him from other people. And Ruby and that whole mess. Dean never wasted an opportunity to remind Sam of his fuckups.

Dean hadn’t been thinking about Sam. He hadn’t really been thinking about him at all beyond a child to chastise and someone to live with.

They’d had fights before. Things had been rough before.

He just didn’t think Sam believed all this stuff. That he was fundamentally bad. That Dean hated him.

Yeah, Dean had certain feelings about certain things. But even with all the bad blood holding them down he knew that Sam did everything out of a desire to help people. To punish the person that had taken Dean from him. 

To end things.

Dean felt like a pile of shit.

He wondered how much of Sam’s account was full of sentiments like this. Or maybe how other users blamed Sam or favored Dean. If Sam was drowning himself in hatred and punishment.

And Dean was only helping.

It didn’t matter how Dean felt about things, how hurt he was. He’d been lashing out, wallowing in how hard he was finding it to adjust to being out of hell. 

And Sam was torturing himself just as badly as Dean had tortured souls.

Sam made a noise and Dean jumped. He looked over to Sam, paranoid that Sam had seen him reading, but Sam was still sleeping. Fitfully, by the looks of it. Dean’s old Sam senses still worked, even if they were a bit rusty, and he could tell Sam was walking into a nightmare.

Dean got up without thinking. He sat on the edge of Sam’s bed and grabbed Sam’s shoulder. He rocked him gently, like a boat on the waves, like he’d done since Sam was a baby, and piece by piece, Sam woke up.

He blinked up at Dean, frowning, still in a sleep fog, hair a cowlicked mess. 

“Hey,” Dean said. His throat was full. He couldn’t do this right now. “Get up. I’m gonna get breakfast.”

Sam nodded, rubbing his eyes and sitting up.

Dean got up. He all but ran to the door.

The moment he was in the Impala, he let out a breath. He was being a coward. He had to fix things. 

Before Sam went over the edge and Dean couldn’t get him back.

***

Dean was being nice to Sam.

It had Sam on edge. They’d had a loud argument, and nothing they’d shouted at each other had been brought up since. And now Dean was bringing Sam his favorite foods and talking very softly and asking him questions and starting awkward and halting conversations about Sam’s interests.

He didn’t want Dean’s pity, is the thing.

Pity was just as bad as hatred, as resentment, as bitterness and regret. He didn’t want Dean looking at him like he was some sort of sad sack, an unhinged lump of repression and anxiety.

They drove out of town after lunch and Dean suggested taking a break for a day and just driving. Sam didn’t have it in him to argue so he agreed. Internally, he wasn’t looking forward to spending any significant amount of time trapped in a small space with Dean. 

Sam’s energy was at an all-time low. He listed against the door frame as the car barreled down some Midwestern interstate. He stared out the window, zoning out as forests and farms flashed past.

Dean cleared his throat and Sam’s eyes refocused on his own pale reflection in the glass.

“Sam,” Dean said. 

Sam sat up. “What.”

“Your—” Dean cleared his throat. “Your project, I, uh, bet you research it as hard as you research for cases.”

It was such an awkward thing to say, and it took Dean almost a full minute to get it out, like it was physically hurting him. Sam restrained a sigh.

He side-eyed Dean. “Thanks.”

Dean nodded. “Your friends are lucky.”

It was some sort of olive branch, as mangled and butchered as it was.

“It’s not for Stanford friends,” Sam said eventually. “Online friends. Thought you’d think it’s stupid.”

He watched Dean try to find the right words. “It’s not stupid,” Dean said eventually.

Sam didn’t really have a response to that. 

Dean didn’t bring it up again, and they drove on in silence.

***

They stopped for gas in a small college town in Wisconsin. The downtown was cute and quirky in a way Sam had seen a thousand times before.

Still, he tried not to judge the place or get bored of it too quickly.

Dean finished gassing Baby up. “Sam,” he started, sliding into the driver’s seat, and Sam was beginning to think his name would only ever sound awkward or disappointed coming out of Dean’s lips. “Wanna get some ice cream?”

Sam gave Dean a look. “Ice cream?”

Dean shrugged. “Uh, yeah. They have a local place, local cows, whatever. And peanut butter ice cream.”

Sam’s favorite ice cream flavor was peanut butter. Not vanilla with peanut butter cups or a peanut butter swirl, but proper peanut butter ice cream.

Sam could accept this kind of olive branch. He shrugged back and managed maybe a sixth of a smile. “Why not?”

Dean smiled at that.

***

They found a motel in Minnesota around dinner. Dean disappeared, probably exhausted from being around Sam all day, so Sam spent his time alone just trying to get comfortable existing with himself.

He opened his laptop. His half-written story popped right up and Sam felt a twinge of guilt for making the person who’d prompted him wait so long.

He was going to stick to his promise. He was going to finish writing it, post it, and be done with it all. Rip off the band aid and move on.

Sam skimmed what he’d written so far, mentally catching himself up. He fixed his posture and tried to get into the mindset of someone who still had hope for this kind of thing.

He wrote.

***

Dean was running away from Sam.

He felt like shit for it and he knew exactly why he was doing it, but he couldn’t fight the urge the moment the car was in park and the bags were in the room.

It was hard being around Sam and seeing all of those feelings written across his face and knowing it was partially (okay, probably mostly) his fault that those feelings were there.

He knew that solving this problem and getting Sam to a better place would take a long time and a lot of effort and that he honestly wasn’t as great a person as he could hope to be. Even when Sam stayed sullen after Dean got him his favorite chips, Dean was a bit grumpy. Why didn’t Sam appreciate it? 

Then Dean had to mentally berate himself.

They sort of had a break right now, but Dean knew the next seal or the next Lilith spotting or demonic activity would come up soon and they’d be back at it. And if they were back onto the job like that, there wouldn’t be enough time to convince Sam of anything. So Sam would just be walking into monster dens and dangerous situations believing he’s worthless.

And Dean did not want that shit at all.

So he had to try. He had to try now. While he still had a chance.

Dean was sitting in the library with a coffee. He got up, intending to go straight to the Impala, straight home, and straight to Sam to tell him he was a good kid. 

Once he stood up, though, a thought struck him.

What was Sam doing right now?

Was he on the forums? Was he writing that story?

Dean went over to the computer lab area of the library. He sat at an open computer and opened the web browser. He typed in Sam’s username in the web forums.

Sam had made a post today. He’d made a post twelve minutes ago.

It was the story Dean had been reading. Sam had finished it and posted it.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Dean clicked the link.

It took him over an hour, and he was getting suspicious looks from hovering librarians, but he read the whole thing, start to finish.

It was… a lot to process. 

The issue of Sam not thinking Dean loved him evolved into something explicitly romantic. Sam was in love with him, and he thought Dean didn’t love him at all. But in the story, Dean did love Sam back, was in love with him back.

After they confirmed their feelings with each other and had the inevitable crisis of conscience, they came together.

Like, came together together.

Emotional speeches. Kisses. Intimate touches.

Sex.

Penetrative, raw-dogging sex.

Oh, and it wasn’t just vanilla sex, wasn’t just Sam crying on Dean’s shoulder as Dean lovingly and tenderly porked him.

It was kinky.

There was a definite dominant Dean and submissive Sam theme that carried through the several sex scenes.

When Dean was done, he didn’t take any time to process what he’d read. He went back to Sam’s profile and read the other story. Then he went through the posts Sam had shared from other users and read some of the stories on those, too.

He learned about A/B/O. He learned about Omega Sam being knotted by Alpha Dean and that Sam was apparently very into this trope, considering most of the posts he shared were compiled lists of stories with the same tropes.

All the same. Sam and Dean hurting but coming together despite adversity. Sam and Dean being in some kind of soul-rending love. Sam and Dean having all sorts of raunchy, weird, and animalistic sex.

This is what Sam had been looking at. This is what Sam was obsessed with. This was what Sam spent all his time doing.

Reading and writing these stories.

Dean had no idea how much time was passed. The library had emptied out, filled up, and emptied out again. His back hurt from holding the same position for so long.

He stared blankly at the table.

Sam wouldn’t read these stories out of some sense of punishment or pure, detached fascination. He wouldn’t read them for research purposes or for a project.

He read them because he liked them.

Because he wanted what the stories contained.

Sam was in love with him.

And was also some kind of kinky slut, way beyond what Dean would have ever guessed (he didn’t even know Sam liked getting it up the ass), way beyond what Dean himself was like. Hell, in comparison to Sam, Dean was pretty vanilla.

Well. More like “had been” pretty vanilla.

Dean was not going to think about it right now, but he had a semi, and he had to admit, a lot of the kinks had some merit, some idea behind it that made it sexy, even the freakier shit, like A/B/O. 

This was a lot to deal with right now. Too much to deal with. 

He knew one thing.

He didn’t want to leave Sam alone right now.

***

Sam read through the comments of his latest fic, completely numb. All of his friends were so encouraging and kind. His mouse was hovering over the “delete account” button when a key scratched into the lock and Dean walked in. He was carrying some bags of takeout. The moment their eyes met, Dean froze like a deer in the headlights.

“Hey,” Dean said.

“Hey,” Sam said back, and clicked the button. His account was gone.

Dean held up the takeout bags, shuffling over to sit across from Sam. “I, uh, got you something.” He passed some out to Sam and Sam found some of his favorite foods within the white containers.

“Thanks.” Sam started eating. He relaxed when Dean ate, too. Serious conversations couldn’t be had while mouths were full of white rice.

Dean didn’t finish his food, though. He sat there with a pensive look on his face and Sam mentally prepared himself for the worst.

“You know…” Dean started and stopped about a dozen times, leaving Sam waiting there for the shoe to inevitably fall. 

Dean ducked his head, shaking it. He looked up at Sam. “Look, Sammy, you know it’s not true, right?”

Sam swallowed some broccoli. “What’s not true?”

Dean shifted, scratching at his head. He looked at Sam dead on. “It’s not true that I don’t love you.”

Sam felt his whole body go cold. He couldn’t think. “What?”

“I read the document,” Dean rushed out, “the one you left open on your computer when you passed out a few states back. About some girl asking for a story where--”

“You read it?!” Sam interjected, his voice going several octaves higher than usual. He was vacillating through several emotions, first and foremost rage and horror.

Dean opened his mouth like he was going to protest, but he shut it after a few beats. He sagged. “Fuck, Sam, I went through your whole account. I read everything.”

Sam was literally living his worst nightmare. Nestled cozily up against the rage and horror was some of the worst embarrassment Sam had ever felt. This could not be happening. His face went hot. “You had no right to do that,” he just barely managed to choke out.

“I know, I know,” Dean said, biting at the inside of his cheek. “I know, I’m sorry, I just. I wanted to know what was pulling you away.”

“Fuck you,” Sam snapped. He got up, yanking his coat off the back of the chair. “Fuck off.”

It took him two paces to reach the door.

He was grabbing the handle when Dean called out, “I get it, I get all of it, I don’t blame you, please don’t leave.”

Despite what every fucking braincell he had was saying, he didn’t leave. He stood there, frozen, chest heaving, facing the door, hyper-aware of Dean lurking somewhere behind him.

“Sammy,” Dean said, all raw and strung out. “Sammy, I didn’t know.”

Sam snorted. “Yes, I worked very hard to keep it that way.”

There was a beat of silence. “For how long?”

Sam whirled around to face Dean and his stupid gentle voice. He couldn’t keep the glare on his face and he felt his eyes betraying him, burning, vision blurring. 

“Since I was fourteen,” he said.

Dean let out a breath. “This whole time?”

Sam had no more energy. He walked one step to the nearest bed and collapsed. He looked at the floor. He shook his head. He was so stupid. He was such a complete and utter idiot. “This whole time,” he echoed. 

Dean sat down on the other bed, also staring at the floor. “I--”

“Look, can we not talk about this?” Sam interrupted. “I am begging you to let us forget any of this ever happened and move on. I already deleted my account.”

Sam could feel the pressure in the room rising, and knew it was only a matter of time before something burst. He had to get out. He had to get out. But he couldn’t move.

“I don’t want to forget,” Dean murmured.

Sam’s head snapped up and he met Dean’s stupid mopey eyes. “Why?”

“Why do you think, dingus?” Dean snapped back. Dean went red. “I didn’t mean. Um. I just mean. I’m glad I know.”

Sam shook his head. “You don’t have to know everything about me, Dean.”

Sam watched Dean flinch out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry about everything,” Dean said. He waved his hands around in a vague gesture. “It was shitty not to trust you, and to throw things in your face… I never meant to make you feel like that.”

Sam was getting whiplash. He hugged his arms around his torso. “Thanks. I guess.”

“Sammy, listen. I do--I do care about you. And I don’t think you’re a monster. And I should’ve trusted you. I’m an idiot, okay? But you don’t have to be one right now.”

Sam looked up.

Dean let out a shaky laugh. “Want to get beer and pizza and watch a movie? And not think about stuff for a while? And, you know, make sure you know I’m. I’m here and you’re okay?”

Sam sighed, deflating. He wiped at his eyes. “It’s a little too much,” he said. “This is all. Too soon.”

“Okay. Okay,” Dean said, nodding, in that voice that meant he was disappointed but was trying not to show it.

Dean stood, knees crackling. “I’m going to go out and not fuck some girls,” Dean said. He paused at the door. “See you tomorrow?”

Sam nodded, throat full. “Yeah,” he rasped. “See you tomorrow.”

***

Faster than Sam would have liked, tomorrow came.

The world didn’t end, at least not in that moment.

Sam woke up, moving arthritically, and found Dean passed out in the other bed, the TV still on and quietly playing the Hallmark channel. Sam couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He turned the TV off on his way to the bathroom.

The rest of the day passed with not much to say for it, and, rather than put Sam at ease, it put him on edge.

The bubble had to pop at some point. Things weren’t magically fixed. He’d fuck up and Dean would drop this act. Everything would be thrown in his face. And he’d have to live with it.

That’s what Sam was preparing himself for. The inevitable. If he worked at it hard enough, maybe it wouldn’t hurt that badly.

He knew he was fooling himself.

Dean found them a case in Massachusetts. They weren’t sure what it was just yet, except for the fact that all the bodies were mangled up and skinned.

Bobby let them know about another seal--after it had already broken. They were stopping in towns that fit their own interpretation of a vague line in Revelations, but nothing ever panned out. Sam was used to feeling two steps behind, but now they were twenty. Right when it mattered the most.

The moment they were settled in at their motel, Dean bolted. Sam was almost relieved. He could breathe a little. He didn’t feel pity sticking to him like a humid poncho.

Sam sat down at his computer, just a reflex at this point, and froze. There was nothing for him here. No documents, no accounts, no messages, no nothing.

He felt paralyzed.

He jolted himself out of his reverie, almost in anger. He could be saving the world right now. He could be doing the least he could to make things right. He opened his email to look at messages from other hunters to find a message from Dean waiting for him instead.

Sam frowned at the email, his whole body coiled up, weary and wary.

He clicked it.

It was long. Paragraphs and paragraphs, all of them dense.

Sam skimmed it, eyes narrowed, and realized with a rush of heat that it wasn’t some long letter in which Dean confessed he couldn’t bear to be around Sam after the sins he’d learned about him.

It was a fic.

Sam was frozen yet again, always frozen. 

Despite all of his reservations, he read it.

It was laughably terrible. Like, okay, Sam had only taken one creative writing class in college and didn’t consider himself much of an editor, but even a fifth grader would be able to tell this was absurd. Not that he would make a fifth grader read it.

_“Sammy, you’re my omega baby, my puppy boy,” Dean husked, like a large, fluffy dog._

Sam couldn’t tell if it was satire or if Dean was trying to mimic his style or if Dean was honestly trying his best. Hiding a smile behind his hand, he kept reading.

_“Miss me?” Dean growled at the brown-haired, whimpier brother of the two. “And this huge dick?”_

The rest of the fic was no better, but the concept was good. It was a story where Dean loved Sam all his life and it took Sam a long time to realize he had the same feelings. They came together and went on the road, guns blazing, and never looked back, never caring what people thought about them.

Oh, yeah, and it was A/B/O and dom sub and basically every kink Sam had shoehorned into a fic that was only about 900 words long.

When Sam finished reading it, he just sat there, tummy flipping, mind racing. He almost passed out when the door slammed open, swinging against the wall with a huge whack. He jumped up, heart pounding, and found Dean standing there, hands on his hips in a cocky pose.

“Miss me?” Dean said, in some weird guttural moan. Dean saw the look on Sam’s face and stopped short. “Was I too early? I was supposed to, you know, burst in right when you read the line… all cool like…”

Sam snorted. “I finished it like twenty minutes ago.”

Dean slapped his thigh. “Damn it!” He looked at Sam askance. “Did you still, uh, miss… this huge dick?” He gestured downwards at himself.

Sam laughed.

He laughed out loud, arguably a cackle, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. Dean stood there helplessly for most of it, most likely weirded out or offended, but by the time Sam was red in the face, Dean was smiling, too.

Sam gasped for breath and Dean crept forward. “You good?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded. “You just…” he gestured at all of Dean. “Wow.”

“Hey.” Dean frowned. “It wasn’t false advertising.”

“Look,” Sam straightened. “Did you… mean all of this?”

Dean nodded. At Sam’s quirked eyebrow, he added, “yes. Definitely.”

“Even the part about knotting my subby omega hole?” Sam asked.

It was Dean’s turn to go red in the face. To his credit, he nodded. “Yes.”

Sam was having trouble believing him. Dean made a frustrated sound, stepping into Sam’s space. “Sammy, look, I wouldn’t’a written that for no reason,” he said. “I’m in.”

“You’re in?” Sam repeated, scoffing.

Dean threw his arms out. “What do you want me to say?”

“That I’m a monster!” Sam blurted out. “That what I want is wrong! That we can’t have it.”

All the mirth drained away from Dean’s face. He was still in Sam’s orbit. He looked up at Sam with a furrowed brow and a jutted jaw. “That is not true,” he said, with heat. “None of that’s true--and I want this.”

“Then why can’t you say it?” Sam whispered.

Dean’s eyes widened. He put his hands on Sam’s hips. “Sammy,” he said, very seriously, never breaking eye contact, “I think I fucked up. And I think I love you. And I want to fuck you. I want to treat you right. Like all the things you read. Also, didn’t know you were such a good writer.”

“Didn’t know you were such a sucky one.”

Dean was about to protest, but he switched gears. “Kid, come on,” he groaned. “Let yourself have something. Just because it’s good doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

Dean inched closer. “That you don’t deserve it.”

That just about did Sam in, and a beat later, he was being folded into Dean’s arms. Dean rubbed broad palms up and down Sam’s back, shushing and cooing him while Sam made all manner of weird noises. He was processing, okay?

It took him a few minutes to compose himself, but when he did, Dean was still there, waiting for him, with a gentle smile.

This was real.

“Can I kiss you?” Dean asked. “Er, wait. This first.”

Dean raised his sleeve to Sam’s face and wiped all the tears and snot off of him. Very romantic.

“There. Good as new,” Dean murmured. “Now can I kiss you?”

This was it. This when Sam would know. Unable to trust his voice, he just nodded. Dean nodded back. They met eyes for a second, and Sam didn’t know what he saw there. Dean leaned in.

Then they were kissing.

A brush of lips. Sort of cold, wet, a bit chapped. They weren’t in sync at first, and Dean sort of kissed Sam’s chin, and it was chaste, quick. It felt like nothing.

Sam pulled away but Dean’s warm hands kept him in Dean’s orbit. “Wanna try that again?” Dean asked.

They kissed, and Sam realized in the back of his mind that he was horribly rusty. He hadn’t kissed anyone in years. And, after a few goes, it came back to him, like riding a bicycle. The kiss became real, a dance, and he mirrored Dean, the kisses slow and easy with breaks in between. They gradually deepened, Dean taking chances and nibbling at Sam’s bottom lip, or poking a tongue out, and Sam tried to match him, but something was holding him back.

Dean pulled away, licking his lips. “Sam,” he said, sounding like gravel, but a nice gravel, not a fake Harrison Ford kind of bravado like before. “You’re too fuckin’ tense.”

“Sorry,” Sam said.

Dean squinted up at Sam. “You still need proof?”

Sam felt a little shit at that. “No,” he said. “No, I just…”

“Let’s try something else,” Dean suggested. He moved Sam, backing him up until he hit the wallpaper. Then he forced Sam’s legs apart, and Sam slid down a few inches. Dean fitted himself between Sam’s legs, now just barely taller than Sam.

Dean grabbed Sam’s face and kissed the life out of him. It was possessive and demanding. And all Sam could do was tilt his neck up and kiss back and follow Dean’s directions. He was waking up, all parts of him, and the kisses said more than Dean ever could, in a fic or in real life, and Sam was maybe beginning to believe him a little bit.

Dean pulled away, lips glistening, panting slightly. “Well,” he laughed. “I could do this all day, but uh…”

Dean nudged forward, just a little bit, just for a second, but Sam felt it. 

He and Dean were in similar situations. 

In their pants, he meant.

All of Sam’s reservations and doubts came flooding back at once and his own situation wilted a bit. Dean read the emotions off his face immediately and nudged them closer together. “Hey, hey,” Dean murmured. “We’ve got time, right? S’okay. Hey. You listenin’ to your alpha?”

“God.” Sam hid his face in his hands and laughed. “It sounds so stupid when you say it like that.”

“It’s not stupid,” Dean said indignantly. “I’ve been here before. You’re nervous because you’re embarrassed about your kinks. I get it. But I can make it good, Sammy, good as hell, if you play along.”

Sam looked at Dean. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined it.”

“No offense, Sam, but thank god. Life is more fucked up and shitty than fiction.”

Something about that unlocked something in Sam and he surged forward, kissing Dean senseless, silencing a grunt of surprise from Dean with his lips. Dean got with the program, and they fought, Sam pushing at Dean, Dean slamming Sam back into the wall, all of the air escaping Sam’s lungs. 

Sam looked up at Dean, eyes wide, and his cock twitched. He pushed Dean away and Dean stumbled backward. “You have to mean it,” Sam said. “Prove it.”

Dean’s eyes went dark. A moment later, he was plastered against Sam, sucking a sharp hickey onto Sam’s neck, over his carotid, and Sam felt crazy vulnerable but he trusted Dean. He only trusted Dean. No one else.

Dean rubbed their cocks together through denim, and it wasn’t nearly enough friction, but it was enough to make Sam hiss, his hands flexing uncontrollably. 

Dean pulled away with a smirk. “You’re so fucking easy,” he said. “I should’ve known. Bossy little bitch.”

Sam wanted to chew Dean out for that one, but Dean had Sam’s jeans open a split second later, pulling Sam’s cock out, and wait, Sam was feeling nervous again, second guessing himself, but wait. Just wait. 

He watched Dean spit into his palm and rub at Sam. Dean looked him in the eye. “Gonna do it how I like it,” he said, and Sam could sense Dean’s own nerves, that Dean had never been quite in this territory before.

Sam mirrored Dean, pulling Dean out of his jeans. He spit onto his own palm and started rubbing at Dean the way he liked it. Dean groaned. 

Just like everything in their lives, it became a competition. The best, the fastest, the one who could wring the loudest noise out of the other. The room was filled with slick sounds and gasping breaths.

Sam was about to come, his eyes rolling up his head, his body a wave of heat and pleasure, when Dean pulled away, wiping his hands off, and stepped out of Sam’s reach.

Sam’s weak knees barely held himself up. “What the hell?”

“What a pathetic ending,” Dean said. “Don’t you want a home run?”

Sam’s dick was very much still interested. His hole clenched. 

Dean laughed at the look on Sam’s face. “Easy.”

He drew Sam over to the bed. 

They stripped each other, and this was more intimate than rough. This was raw, vulnerable, scary, awkward, awful, but Sam didn’t look away, first looking at Dean’s chest, then his legs, his hips, his cock. Sitting right there, thick, familiar from stolen glances but also new. 

And Dean was looking back.

That almost made Sam shut the whole thing down and run.

The kiss should have been proof. The handjob should have been proof. The looks and touches and noises should have been proof.

But this is where the jig would be up. This is where Sam would see the disgust and revulsion on Dean’s depressingly heterosexual and disappointed face. This is where Sam’s pointed ribs and scarred wrists and ungainly shape would be revealed for what it was.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered. “Hey, it’s okay. We can stop. Open your eyes.”

Sam hadn’t realized he’d shut them. He opened them, looking over at Dean. Dean was frowning, and soft. 

Sam felt shame burn through him. “I--”

“Can I look?” Dean asked. “You know I want to, right? Not gonna blame me for being late to the game?”

Sam’s throat was stuck. He nodded, a jerky little thing.

Dean’s hands helped him out of his boxers, and then he was naked.

Dean’s hands went to his hair, combing through, then his jaw, then his collarbones, then his nipples, his navel, his hips, his arms, his fingers. His thighs, his knees, his lower stomach, then brushing at his cock.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered. “Look at me.”

Sam looked at him.

They were sitting together naked on the edge of a bed. It was ridiculous. But the look on Dean’s face was not ridiculous.

“Not to get any cheesier than fiction, but you’re beautiful,” Dean croaked. “You still don’t believe me?”

“I do,” Sam managed. “I believe you. But I don’t get it.”

Dean kissed him. Just a small, chaste, thing. “I’ll convince you someday.” He got up. “We have time.”

“Wait.” Sam’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Dean’s wrist. Dean stopped. “We don’t.”

“Sammy--”

“Come back,” Sam said. He swallowed down his fear. He needed to be cut open before Dean or things would never work out. And now he had the tiniest smidgeon of hope that the future was possible. “Show me.”

Dean sat down. He carded Sam’s hair behind his ear. He was still soft. He leaned in. 

He kissed Sam.

Sam kissed back.

He used his last drop of courage and reached out to touch Dean, to caress scars he’d memorized since childhood, dance without looking across constellations of freckles he’d stared at every time Dean left the shower or they shared a bed.

Dean touched back, and Sam would have wept at the way Dean’s hands found Sam’s scars, too, on his arms, on the small of his back, on his belly. Dean’s hands were strong, firm, and warm, and they rubbed life back into Sam. 

Sam crawled into Dean’s lap. Their hard cocks brushed up against each other and Dean swore something sharp and dirty.

Sam looked down at Dean, at the lust and awe on Dean’s face. “Fuck me,” Sam said. “Alpha.”

Dean looked up at Sam with a look Sam had fantasized about his entire life. And there it was.

Dean flipped their positions so quickly that Sam’s head was swimming. Before long, he was laying on his back, head on the pillow, sheets thrown back, and Dean was crawling over him, cock bobbing between his legs. As Dean came closer, he pawed at Sam’s thighs, lifting Sam’s legs at the knee and pushing them open wider until Sam knew all of him was on display.

Sam had no time to go red in the face, to have any more reservations or hang ups. Dean kissed him again, and their cocks brushed again, and oh god. Dean was too good at this. Dean was too quick of a study.

And, okay, god damn it, Sam was too fucking easy.

Dean let them frot for a while, Sam needy and writhing, Dean controlling the pace, but as always, Dean stopped when Sam got too close. He didn’t back away, though, their bodies still flush, and he leaned over to grab something from the nightstand.

His arm didn’t reach. He stretched as far as he could, and instead of grabbing what he was supposed to, he slipped, planting his chin right between Sam’s pecs.

Sam flinched. “Ow.”

“Shit, hold on,” Dean muttered. He crawled away from Sam, ass in the air, and dug through the motel nightstand drawer. It took him long enough to find what he was looking for that Sam’s thoughts drifted off. The coffee stain on the ceiling looked kind of like a brontosaurus.

Dean found it, eventually, and crawled back over Sam. He cocked his head, smirking down at Sam. “You still desperate?”

Sam thought for a moment, shrugging with a wide sturgeon frown. “Hmm. Not so much.”

Dean was shocked. His eyebrows shot up, but slid down faster into a glare when he realized Sam was fucking with him. “You bitch,” he swore. “You know what this means, right? Alpha’s gotta punish you.”

Dean popped the cap on the lube and poured a lot into his hands. Like half the bottle.

Sam was feeling bold. “You ever done anal before?”

“Shut up,” Dean snapped. “Of course I have. I just want to be gentle.”

Sam sat up on his elbows. He quirked an eyebrow. “Since when is punishment gentle?”

“You asked for it.”

A finger was at Sam’s hole a second later, Dean’s face in his space, not kissing him, just whispering cringy filthy nothings, like, “gonna pump you full of wolfy seed, get you good and pregnant.” Dean’s breath was not ideal.

Sam would be lying if it didn’t turn him on a little bit.

His hole burned.

It had been some time since he’d done the old one hand tango with himself, and he was tight. 

Tight enough to have Dean cursing and flexing his thighs, trying to get some friction while he worked harder than a 4.0 student on an important paper to get just a single finger inside Sam comfortably.

Somehow, he and Dean had the most honest and relaxed conversation in months with one of Dean’s fingers probing Sam’s ass like a colonoscopy.

“Of course we can,” Dean was saying, a little breathless. “Shit’s been fucked up before, man, and we never know where we’re going. But we figure it out.”

“But it’s never been…” Sam had to pause to moan when Dean’s finger brushed against something nice. “Fucked up like this.”

“Really has a double meaning now, doesn’t it?” Dean itched with his finger, rubbing at Sam’s prostate.

Sam’s whole body jolted. “Fucking… asshole,” he managed.

“That’s what I’m trying to do, yes.”

Sam was fighting a losing battle against Dean’s entendres, so he submitted to the feelings, closing his eyes and trying to relax. He focused on the sensations, on the fact that something was inside him, that part of Dean was inside him, and that line of thinking was all it took to get Sam about a million times harder than before.

Inside him. Dean inside his hole. Fuck. Sam was easy, because that was the sexiest shit in the world, the one thing that Sam had ever masturbated to in his entire life, pretty much.

Dean noticed the change. “Getting loose,” he grunted. “You want it, omega?”

“Want it,” Sam replied without thinking, sounding whiny. “Want it bad.”

“Fuck.” Dean pulled Sam in for a brief, rough, and bitey kiss, leaving Sam’s head spinning. 

Then Dean was holding his dick, angling it. Then they were both absorbed with the task of Having Sex. It had been some time for them both and for the moment it was just about being horny, about fucking, about pushing in and feeling it.

Dean shoved in, slow, but all the way down until he was balls deep. He was too big for Sam, and it hurt a little, and Sam felt stretched and pried open on Dean. 

“Dean,” Sam moaned, just like he had in the shower when he was alone. He felt brave. “Dean.” He tried to put a slutty spin on it.

Dean pulled out, just a little, and pushed back in, and Sam tried to breathe deeply, to relax and make it better on both of them. 

It didn’t really work. Dean pulled all the way out. He applied more lube and pushed back in. That was some progress.

For a few minutes, all they did was rock, and neither of them was really feeling anything wild, but they were determined to get to the good parts, to fuck each other.

Dean shifted a little bit, and oh. Oh. Right there. Sam hissed and Dean got with the program, grabbing Sam’s hips and forcing him closer, bunny fucking him, and yes. 

Sam wanted this. Sam’s hole wanted this. Dean started sliding like how it was supposed to be, messy and lubey like a good fuck, like how Sam dreamed of it (only sometimes; other times he dreamed of it clean and magical and perfect, but hey, Sam was beginning to realize that dirtier was better). Dean grunted, and Sam lost all control.

Jess had both loved him for it and mocked him relentlessly for it, but Sam was loud.

The moment the party started, Sam’s brain went flying right out the window. All he could do was sweat and moan and whine and writhe, searching for that feeling. Dean was saying something to him, desperate and jumbled and fast, hips pumping, but Sam couldn’t hear it.

He could only feel it. Feel Dean fucking into him so fast and hard that Dean’s hips were slapping against Sam’s thighs, bruising, punishing, rocking Sam with every thrust. It was loud and wet, and the bed was protesting, and Sam could feel every inch of Dean sink into him and drag out of him, and it felt amazing.

His toes curled and he sobbed as he came, desperately fisting his cock just once before he was spurting all over his chest, all the way up to his chin.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sammy, fuck,” Dean was repeating over and over, almost manic, hips losing their rhythm. Dean slammed into him hard enough for it to hurt, and Sam was overly sensitive now, wincing as Dean pushed in one more time, two, three, then went still with his cock buried in Sam.

Dean let out one last dying groan before collapsing over Sam. He pulled out and Sam felt come drip out of him and onto the bed. His hole flexed, still open, gaping a little, the air cool around it.

Dean had fucked him. Dean felt the same and had fucked Sam practically to death and now they were lying here in the aftermath of it.

Dean propped himself up, looking drunk, looking dead. He smiled at Sam. “Well, that was fun.”

Sam didn’t have enough control of his facial muscles to smile back. “Wanna clean me up?” he slurred.

Dean chuckled. “Heats always hit you so hard,” he said. “Glad to rut you through it.”

“I’m… not sure that’s how you use that word.”

“You’re in no shape to be correcting me, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Sam passed out to the feeling of a warm, wet washcloth dragging over his chest, and maybe Dean singing, though he couldn’t tell if he was imagining it or not.

***

When Sam woke up, it was to the smell of bacon. Coffee and bacon.

He sat up, rubbing snot and drool and maybe a drop of dried come off of his face.

That thought body slammed him into consciousness faster than any hunting emergency ever could. His head whipped around until he spotted Dean at the kitchenette table with some greasy brown paper bags. 

Dean met his gaze. He held up a coffee cup. “Hey. Breakfast.”

Sam got out of bed, only realizing after Dean’s eyes dipped questionably low that he was still naked. “Hey,” he said, after like, ten seconds of silence. “Breakfast?”

Dean nodded, his face morphing into the patient and friendly smile of a preschool teacher dealing with a kid who still ate boogers. “Yeah, breakfast. But maybe pants first?”

Ah, pants were a good idea. Sam swished around some mouthwash, pulled on some sweatpants, and felt a little more alive. He sat down across the table from Dean and took a sip of his vanilla latte.

Sam ate, shifting every so often to enjoy the aching reminder from last night.

“So, uh.” Dean coughed. “Bobby found some signs. Might be a seal we can shut down.”

No. God damn it. Sam wanted to enjoy this for just a little bit longer. Just one second longer.

It wasn’t fair.

Dean must have read everything off his face. “We should check it out, but I also found a lead on a spell that lets you control your lucid dreaming, if you wanted to kill demons in the day and be a subby wolf man in the night.”

Sam blinked. “You--wait, really?”

“You’re not the only researcher in this family,” Dean said. 

“Wow,” Sam laughed. “Incest has its perks.”

Dean’s eyes widened, and Sam’s eyes widened. 

Dean smirked. “We should send Chuck a gift basket or something. With those little chocolate dicks in it.”

Sam snorted. “Probably not the best idea.”

Dean shrugged. “Worth a shot.” Dean got up, gathering up trash. He brushed a hand down Sam’s side as he walked past, then leaned in to kiss the crown of Sam’s head. “Leave in ten?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, heart bursting full of love and gratitude and maybe an obnoxious amount of hope, “leave in ten.”

A few weeks after that, and the Supernatural forums would be introduced to a groundbreaking new writing duo. A week after that, another seal would break, and the world would continue to end around them. 

But now, as the angels looked down at the two brothers twined together, they weren’t so sure about their plans as they had been.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys as always for reading my stuff, and thanks again to Victoria for giving me such a juicy prompt! 
> 
> Hope y'all have a great weekend!


End file.
